Strife
by BlueVase
Summary: Every marriage has a bit of strife sometimes. When Patrick ignores a pile of unfolded nappies, Shelagh can't control her anger. This fic explores how little tensions can come out in an argument that started over a little thing, but also how these two talk things through and make up. A companion piece to Tension. TW: none, I think.


**I got some requests to write the one-shot** _ **Tension**_ **I did last week from the POV of Shelagh and/or Patrick as well. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, so here we go! Angst, fluff, and steam ahead. Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for beating, as usual.**

Shelagh could not help but feel her blood boil as she came downstairs and saw Patrick in his comfortable chair, reading _The Lancet,_ and drinking a cup of tea, even though a pile of unfolded nappies still littered the coffee table. She had intended to fold them before, but Teddy had been terribly fussy, and it had taken over an hour of rocking him and singing lullabies before he drifted off to sleep. It had been time for Angela's afternoon nap, then, and putting her little darling girl to bed had eaten half an hour of time.

She was far behind on her housework now, and while seeing her husband with his feet up and the worry lines smoothed from his face would normally cause her heart to flutter in a giddy, girly fashion, today it twisted her stomach in anger.

"Patrick!" she said, planting her hands on her hips.

He lowered the delicate china cup with flowers he was drinking from, looked at her, and smiled. "Shelagh! Is Teddy asleep? I thought…"

"Maybe you should think less and do more," she snapped, gathering the nappies in her arms and transferring them to the dinner table, which was larger and thus provided a better workspace for her to fold them.

"Just leave them and drink a cup of tea with me," Patrick said, putting his cup on the matching saucer and stretching. His joints popped and he sighed.

"And who is going to fold those nappies, hm? The fairies? And who is going to peel and dice the potatoes so that we can have dinner in time, and who is going to give Teddy his dinner, and…" her voice was very sharp and thin, like a knife.

"Shelagh, don't make such a fuss!" Patrick said, stepping behind her.

She whirled around, fire blazing in her eyes and brows knitted. "That is easy for you to say! You come home and make tea for yourself and just sit down and relax, never mind that pile of nappies that still needs folding!"

"If you want me to help you do the housework, all you have to do is ask. You know that I will help," Patrick objected, voice cold and formal.

"Why do I have to ask you to help me? Why can't you see that a pile of nappies needs folding, and why can't you do it of your own accord? I am always working so hard to make sure you come home to a tidy house, I am always doing my best to please you…"

"If you want something, just ask!" Patrick said. "I'm not a mind reader, now am I? And you are not Sister Bernadette anymore. You can tell me what you need!" This statement was accompanied by a wagging index finger.

That little gesture, combined with his doctor's voice, made her anger explode like a burning star. Heat pulsed through her, causing crimson to nestle itself in her cheeks. "Don't you lecture me, Patrick Turner! And don't you dare wag your finger at me as if I'm a little girl that needs scolding. I am not your daughter!" her voice was high and piercing, so unlike her normal voice that she blinked in shock and fell silent.

His eyes widened in surprise and he let his hand drop. It fluttered to his side like a dead leaf.

"And I am very much aware that I am not a nun anymore," she said, her voice small again, fighting to get past the lump in her throat. "I stopped being Sister Bernadette for you, if you will remember." Her hands curled into the creased nappies like claws.

"Shelagh, I am sorry…" Patrick started, and though some warmth had started to bleed into his voice, it was still stilted and distant.

"Don't," she said, gathering the nappies and stepping away from him. She buried her face in the freshly washed linen as she walked upstairs to hide the tears that tracked down her cheeks.

When she came downstairs, Patrick had made the table as a little peace offering she couldn't accept, not yet, anyway. His eyes rested on her all during dinner. She knew he was trying to make eye contact with her, but she refused to look at him. She was afraid she would start crying again, and how terribly humiliating would that be? Especially in front of the children…

Timothy had picked up on the tension as soon as he walked through the front door, and talked a lot through dinner, trying to sound cheerful.

Shelagh smiled at him, grateful for his efforts to shield Angela from the strained atmosphere. Her little girl was sensitive, though, and ate only a little. She looked peaky, listless.

 _She's just tired,_ Shelagh decided. Teddy started crying because he was hungry, then, and all her concentration was absorbed by his quickly reddening face.

When she had fed him and put him to sleep, she focused her attention on her daughter again. Patrick and Timothy had done the washing up – another small peace offering which she didn't want and hadn't asked for–, allowing her to study Angela. The girl sat colouring, going over the same spot with her crayons again and again.

"Aren't you feeling well, Angel girl?" Shelagh asked.

"No," Angela confessed. Her lip was trembling and she looked like she was going to cry.

"How about I take you upstairs and tuck you in?" Shelagh proposed. Anything to get away from Patrick's searching eyes. She didn't know if they would be hard and stubborn if she met them, which would be bad, or soft and dog-like, full of remorse, which would be worse. She had hurt him by screaming at him, but he had hurt her, too, and now she was raw and distressed.

 _All over a bunch of nappies,_ she thought wryly, gathering up Angela's crayons. But it wasn't just over a bunch of nappies. It was about a lot more.

"Shelagh, I'm perfectly happy to do that for you, I…" Patrick started.

"Don't," she told him, brows furrowing again of their own accord. She picked Angela up and cupped the back of her head protectively with one hand, letting her fingertips travel over the curve of the girl's skull. Angela placed her head against Shelagh's throat and sighed.

Shelagh quickly carried the child upstairs, away from the air sizzling with hurt and things unsaid.

"Mummy, are you angry with Daddy?" Angela murmured.

"A little bit, yes," Shelagh admitted, not looking at her while putting her down on her bed and then picking up Angela's nightdress from where it lay folded in the cupboard.

 _More like a lot,_ Shelagh had to admit to herself. They had their share of squabbles, of course, but it had been a very long time since she had felt so hurt. There had been the big fight before Angela came into their life, before the girl that was a blessing and a balm brightened their days, but that had been different. It had been Shelagh who reached out to Patrick to make things right again. Now, he was trying to come near her, and it was she who was rebuffing him. She suddenly wondered if that wasn't exceptionally childish of her.

"Why?" Angela asked, snapping her out of her contemplation.

"Sometimes, people say hurtful things, Angel girl," Shelagh explained helping her undress before tugging the nightdress over Angela's head and smoothing her hair, lovingly tucking a wayward strand behind the rosy shell of her ear.

Angela's big blue eyes looked very solemn. "Are you waiting for him to say sorry?" she, asked, picking up her bunny and stroking the threadbare ears.

"Yes," Shelagh had to admit. She wasn't even angry with him for not folding those nappies anymore; instead, she was hurt by his condescending tone, by the silent implication that his words carried: _You are at fault for not communicating with me._

But had she not accused him of the same thing years ago? Was she being a little hypocritical here?

"Will that take long?" Angela asked, wriggling under the sheets.

"I don't know. Your father is very stubborn, sometimes," Shelagh sighed, feeling tears pool behind her eyelids again. Was that true, though? Had Patrick not tried to get near her in the past few hours, trying to apologise for his behaviour in his own way? But, then again, he had only been taking little household chores from her, as if she was smarting from him not helping out instead of the way he had spoken to her…

Angela cupped her mother's face between her tiny hands and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. "Do you want Cuthbert the Second?" she whispered.

"Cuthbert the Second?" Shelagh asked, frowning a little.

"I always snuggle with him when I feel a bit sad," Angela explained, picking the rabbit from where it lay in her lap and holding it up for her mother to see, fondling its left ear.

"Well, I'll keep that in mind. For now, though, I think Cuthbert will be happier with you," Shelagh said, kissing Angela's brow and stroking her cheek with the pad of her thumb. Her daughter was already empathetic and sensitive, learning to look out for others. Shelagh felt tears burn again, though these were tears triggered by a throat-clenching tenderness.

"Okay. I just don't want you to be sad," Angela said, looking as if she was close to tears herself.

She had to comfort the girl, and make sure Angela understood that a little strife was normal in any household. She should not go to sleep feeling strange, out of sorts. "We all have to be a little bit sad, sometimes. Don't you worry about me, though, dearest. I'll be just fine. You go and cuddle Cuthbert for me and sleep a bit, alright?" Shelagh proposed, tucking her daughter in and kissing her hand, stroking the small digits with her index finger.

"Okay."

Shelagh switched off the lights, but left the door open a little bit, allowing the light from the hallway to pool into the room. Angela was scared in the dark. Shelagh understood; as a child, she had found the utter blackness that came with night suffocating, too.

She didn't want to go downstairs, so she went into their bedroom instead, changing into a nightgown.

She sat down to look at Teddy, then. Her baby boy was fast asleep, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She placed her hand on his chest to feel him breathe, letting his warmth soothe her.

He was the tangible reminder of her love for Patrick, and his love for her. She traced the curve of Teddy's skull with her fingertips, marvelling at how soft the down that covered his head was. He was perfect in every way, a little miracle, another soul she could love with every fibre of her being.

Like she loved Timothy, and Angela.

Like she loved Patrick.

Patrick's hand covered hers, fingertips grazing Teddy's chest.

Startled, she turned her face towards him, tilting her head backwards so she could see him. His hazel eyes were very soft in the shaft of moonlight that fell inside the room through the bit of window not covered by curtains. He was smiling a little, but worry lines mapped his face.

"I didn't hear you come in," she said, lowering her eyes. She felt as if she had been snapped out of a trance, or an enchantment. "Has Timothy gone to bed yet?"

"Everyone is asleep. You were gone for a long time," Patrick said, letting go of her hand. He moved away from her to change into his pyjamas.

"Angela took some time to get settled," Shelagh said, still not looking at him. Her voice was flat.

"I know. I talked to her a bit," Patrick said.

"Oh?"

"She told me you had said I was stubborn. I told her you were."

They were silent for a little while. "She asked me why people say hurtful things, sometimes," Patrick continued, voice low.

"What did you say?"

"I told her that people who say mean things are often hurting themselves, or are angry. I told her that you have to apologise when that happens." Then, after a heartbeat: "Shelagh, I am sorry. I should have folded those nappies. It was a silly, inconsiderate thing to do."

Shelagh stepped away from Teddy and sat down on the bed, taking his large hand in hers. He turned around to look at her, and she saw hurt writ large in his eyes.

"Patrick, I am not angry because you didn't do that chore. Not anymore, at least. I am angry because you talked to me as if I am a child, and…" Her throat had grown thick, and she felt like crying again.

"I know I do that, sometimes, and I am sorry, Shelagh. I know I talk condescendingly towards you when I get angry. I don't mean it that way. I don't think you are a child at all," he said, voice still small. He didn't meet her eyes.

"And I am sorry I didn't communicate with you. I should have simply asked you to help me," she whispered, placing her fingertip under his chin and tilting his head up so he could look at her.

"I shouldn't have commanded you to talk with me like that, though. I know you find it hard to ask for things, even though you haven't been a nun in years," Patrick said.

"I'm not a nun anymore. You were right: I should ask for things now," Shelagh said, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

He cupped her face and stroked her cheekbones with his rough thumbs. They rested their foreheads against each other, breath mingling.

"Did you mean it? When you said you feel as if you're always only working to please me?" Patrick asked, and the worry was back in his eyes and voice.

Shelagh felt a twinge of guilt. She smiled at him, caressing his lined face with the hand that wore her wedding ring, the sign she belonged to him and he to her. "Sometimes, yes. But pleasing you pleases me, and…"

"Then let me pleasure you tonight," Patrick proposed.

"But you do. You always do." And that was the truth. Their marriage, their love, was a careful giving and taking, a balancing act that sometimes wobbled a bit – like the tremor of just a few hours ago – but was strong and sound.

"Yes, but I want to show you that I am not selfish," he said.

"You are not a selfish man, Patrick. Stubborn and a bit blunt, sometimes, but never selfish," she said, and kissed him softly.

"Oh, but I am selfish, Shelagh, at least a little bit. I want you, always want you," he murmured, voice growing low with desire.

"I want you…" she started, but found she could not find words to finish her sentence. Maybe she didn't have to finish it. Maybe it was a good sentence as it was.

"Please," he asked.

He wanted to show her that he loved her, that he was sorry.

She wanted to show him that, too.

She kissed him softly, the tip of her tongue tracing his lips, placing one hand on the back of his neck, using the other one to undo the buttons on his pyjama shirt. It was slow going, but that was all right. She kissed his chest, taking delight in how her lipstick smeared on his skin, marking him as hers for now.

Patrick shrugged out of his shirt and she let her hands roam over his shoulder, over his chest and ribs, fingers tickling through the smattering of dark hair. He shucked his trousers and pants, then he let his hands wander up her legs.

She sighed as he kissed the shell of her ear, then her jawline, her throat. His clever fingers trailed circles on her thighs, causing the heat of desire to pool in her belly. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear.

She bit her lip to stifle a moan as his fingers traced her folds through her knickers. "Don't be," she breathed. With trembling hands she pulled her underwear down so his fingers could trace the pink, wet flesh without obstructions. The heat in her belly became an inferno, flames licking and scorching her nerves. It was pain and pleasure at the same time. She wanted him inside her so that the smarting emptiness would disappear, and there would only be bliss.

Patrick smiled, and kissed her as he tried to lay her down.

"Wait," she gasped, and sat up.

He frowned. "Am I doing something wrong?" he asked, breathing fast and shallow, eyes cloudy with desire.

"No. But I want…" she started, then stopped.

"Tell me," he urged her.

She sighed, and embraced him, rubbing her nose against his throat, breathing in his scent. "I want to try something," she said, blushing.

"Whatever you want," Patrick murmured in her ear.

She smiled at that, then pushed him down on the mattress. With one fluid motion she pulled her nightgown over her head, then straddled him, biting back a moan as she sank down, arching her back in pleasure.

She could feel Patrick's hands large and strong on her hips. Could hear as he, too, moaned in ecstasy.

God, this was good. He was deep inside her, filling the emptiness that demanded to be filled, and that was delightful. She adjusted the angle, then started to move, lowering and raising herself gently at first, then faster.

Patrick's hands travelled upward to cup her breasts. She interlaced her fingers with his to stop him. Her breasts were sore from breastfeeding, and already heavy again with milk. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch them and for them to start leaking.

"Is this what you want?" Patrick panted, moving in counter rhythm.

"I want all of you," she growled, momentarily surprising herself with how guttural and deep her voice sounded. The statement was true, though; she wanted his love and tenderness and compassion, and his stubbornness and sulkiness. She wanted all of it, all of _him._ Right now, she wanted him even deeper inside her, and she said so.

Patrick flipped her on her back, looming over her with glittering eyes.

"I love you," she whispered, and kissed him very gently.

"Love you, too," he murmured, then started to move again.

She hooked her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles, locking him to her. She buried one of her hands in his hair and let the other one roam over his back, fingertips skirting his shoulder blade, then his vertebrae.

"Good God, I love you," Patrick breathed in her ear, and those words, combined with a particular movement of his hips, unravelled her.

He didn't last much longer, his desire to join her there overpowering him.

"I think we should fight more often, if this is how we make up," Patrick murmured, fingertips skating over her shoulder.

"Hm," she answered, listening to his heartbeat slow. They were both slick with sweat, and she would have to wash and put her nightgown on before she went back to sleep again, but not just yet.

"This was beautiful, Shelagh," Patrick continued, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"We can do this more often without the fighting," she said. She opened her mouth to say more, but at that point Teddy started to whimper. She had already slung a leg over the edge of the bed when Patrick took her hand and squeezed it.

"I'll get him," he whispered, and stood up to gather the mewling baby in his arms.

Shelagh leaned back against her pillow, smiling as her husband brought their son to her.

"He is one impatient little boy," Patrick whispered as he passed the baby to her.

"He's stubborn, and wants his way," Shelagh said, bringing Teddy's mouth to her nipple. He latched on and started sucking greedily. She sighed as her milk began to flow.

"Now, does he take after his mother or his father?" Patrick asked, wriggling his eyebrows. He sat down beside her, slinging an arm around her and resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Maybe both of us," Shelagh whispered, and kissed Patrick before he could say anything more.

Something tickled her cheek. "Mommy?"

Shelagh came awake at once, blinking away the tiredness that tried to press her eyelids closed. She rubbed her eyes to get rid of the last wisps of fatigue. "Angela? What's wrong, darling?" she murmured.

"I had a bad dream," Angela confessed, eyes moist with tears.

 _Oh, little one,_ Shelagh thought. Then: _Good thing Patrick and I put on our pyjamas again._ "Come here," she said, giving Patrick a shove to get him to move to his side of the bed and slinging back the sheets so Angela could crawl into bed with her.

"Hm, what?" Patrick muttered, sitting up straight as a ramrod and staring ahead groggily.

"Your daughter had a bad dream," Shelagh whispered. She slung her arms around her little girl and settled her between them, kissing her hair.

"A bad dream?" Any trace of sleep had left Patrick's voice immediately.

"Do you want to tell us about it?" Shelagh asked, stroking the child's hair.

Angela sniffed, wiping a tear away with the threadbare ear of her toy rabbit. "I don't remember. I was just…"

"Yes?" Patrick encouraged her, enveloping her tiny hand with his massive one.

"I was afraid you would stay angry with each other," she confessed, voice small, eyes trained on her toy.

Shelagh looked at Patrick. Understanding arched between them. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod, then turned to Angela. "Dearest Angela, your mother and I will never stay angry with each other. We have our fights sometimes, all people do, but we will always talk about it, and stop being mad."

"So you've said sorry to each other? And hugged each other?" she asked.

"Yes," Shelagh said, kissing Angela's temple and putting her head back on the pillow.

"Is that why daddy has a bit of lipstick on his chest?" Angela murmured, sleep already overtaking her.

Shelagh felt her blood shoot to her cheeks.

Patrick was grinning from ear to ear and cocked one eyebrow at Shelagh as he said: "Something like that, yes."

"Oh," Angela breathed, before closing her eyes completely. Her breathing evened out and Shelagh knew her little girl was asleep.

"Do you think she understands that there is nothing for her to worry about?" Shelagh asked, brows furrowed with worry.

"Of course," Patrick said, stroking Angela's blonde hair. He looked at Shelagh, and smirked. "The real question now, of course, is: did I pleasure you tonight?"

"Stop it," she said, slapping his arm, then stilling as Angela turned over and snuggled closer to her mother.

"Saying what you want and need and feel is important in marriage," Patrick sighed as he put his head back on his pillow.

"Yes," Shelagh said. She could not help but feel love wash over her as she looked at Patrick's face, the worry lines temporarily smoothed away somewhat. Tonight this sight, combined with Angela's warmth, the sound of Teddy's steady breathing, and the knowledge that Timothy was down the hall, comfortably asleep, made her feel like she was the luckiest woman alive.


End file.
